


Dragons from Stars in an Empty Sky

by Midna_Ronoa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Cock & Ball Torture, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochism, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Subspace, Tears Are Shed, With a Dash of Smut, how do you tag bull's thing for dragons, relationships are discussed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24044152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midna_Ronoa/pseuds/Midna_Ronoa
Summary: The one in which Bull takes Cullen dragon-hunting.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 22
Kudos: 68





	Dragons from Stars in an Empty Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stuck on the Puzzle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269628) by [thespectaclesofthor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespectaclesofthor/pseuds/thespectaclesofthor). 



> This fic is what happens when you spend a month of quarantine playing Dragon Age Inquisition and rereading the IronLion tag for the third time instead of working on your thesis.  
> There’s no explicit pre-scene negotiation discussed, but given that they are in an established relationship, and Bull being Bull, just assume they took place long time ago and that they are both aware of their watchwords, limits and other stuff.  
> I’d also like to acknowledge that I completely forgot that in canon Cullen’s parents died during the Blight, so I’m gonna follow Bioware’s example when they forgot they had to add another moon in the sky for DAI and do whatever the fuck I want.
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [3SpidersWithAPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3SpidersWithAPen/pseuds/3SpidersWithAPen).
> 
> Title taken from a quote in Barbara Hambly's "Dragonsbane":  
> “Maggots from meat,’” quoted John, “‘weevils from rye, dragons from stars in an empty sky.”

They leave the Templar’s Rest at dawn, wisps of mist still sliding in between the moors’ tall grass, soft light beginning to peek from behind the mountains. Celestine promises that everything will be well taken care of; dark-haired, sunken-eyed, Celestine, who still wears the crest in her armour and has difficulty expressing herself in Trade. Celestine who once was a young promise among the ranks of the Order, back in Val Royeaux’s Spire, who now struggles to even remember her fiancés name.

Cullen trusts her more than he’s able to acknowledge. Trusts her with keeping this place safe until they return, with keeping Grace not too far away when she sees a bird take off towards the woodlands.

“It’ll be just two weeks,” he tells Grace, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, his hands ruffling the blue-grey hair between her perked ears.

She barks once as if understanding, butts her head against Cullen’s hand while her tail wags energetically, stirring the dust in the path, her posture firm, close to Celestine, like soldiers in parade rest.

A wolf-whistle makes him come out of his rapture, the Iron Bull looking _almost_ regal on the back of his great nuggalope.

“C’mon, _kadan_! That dragon’s not gonna hunt itself!”

* * *

“I cannot believe that this behaviour is tolerated in the great Magisterium! While the southern heathens have perfectly civil gatherings in which, at least, assassination attempts are covered up with a bit more of discretion,” Krem makes a Dorian impression that had caught the rapt attention of the entirety of the Chargers from the beginning of his tale, Cullen included. They are now barely containing their laughter, their gazes filled with mirth and fixed in what Cullen’s reaction might be to the next outrageous part of the story that is about to follow.

“So you know the Boss, he makes those sad puppy eyes that even managed to turn Leliana soft, and he uses them on the Vint and goes all _Vhenaaaan_ ,” Bull’s imitation of Lavellan is not as accurate as Krem’s is, but it does bring a smile to Cullen’s lips.

“And Dorian, oh fuck, he g _rabs_ the Inquisitor from the lapels of the ridiculous doublet Ambassador Montilyet had made him wear, and _kisses_ him in the middle of that gathering of pompous asses,” Krem wheezes out making Cullen snort, before Bull is also roaring with laughter.

“Maker’s breath! He didn’t!” He notes, perhaps too late, that he sounds almost like a gossiping fishwife; though he’s enjoying it too much to care, an odd thrill running rampant over his whole body.

“Koslun’s balls! You ought to have seen Dorian’s father’s face, he looked as if he were about to shit gold!” Bull chuckles, patting Cullen on the back, seized by a sense of euphoria that he belatedly realises they both share.

“And then the Inquisitor just—went all red and Dorian spent like, a solid while trying to cool him down because he looked as if he was about to faint,” Krem pops in, turning to see how the rest of the Chargers are faring the passage of the river; Bull, Cullen and Krem himself having been the first three to get through.

“I truly hope Dorian is okay, Maker. I know Lavellan has gained some respect in Tevinter for what he did with the Venatori but—”

“Nah, he’ll be fine, _kadan_ , they both will.”

And Bull is staring at him, his posture loose and relaxed, angled towards the rest of the Chargers—his gaze on Cullen, soft and filled with an emotion that makes Cullen’s throat tighten, because he rarely sees it in front of so many people, under the sunlight.

Cullen does the only thing he can do, the only thing he knows how to do.

He gets closer to Bull, and very slowly, laces his fingers with him, squeezing the rough palm against his. Bull’s steady pulse a constant, a reassurance.

* * *

They must make a curious retinue. Four humans riding along two elves and a dwarf on horseback while a giant Qunari trails, usually in the middle, riding a beast that most Fereldans will probably never even have heard of. It’s not only the looks, the conversation and loudness of it all helps Cullen distance himself from his previous experiences as a soldier.

Being with the Chargers is nothing like being with the Order, or even with the Inquisition. With the Chargers, he is just one more sword, one more voice, not even high in the ranks—which Bull and Krem would vehemently deny—if there are _any_. His stormheart armour another stark reminder of that; no blade of mercy engraved on it, no silver blue hues reflecting on his mount when the sun rises above them.

Not a templar. Not a soldier.

They pass through an area of farmland close to where Lothering used to stand. There are children playing in the fields that climb over rickety wooden fences to watch them, cheering and raising their arms in mock military salutes and energetic waves that Krem and Dalish return in earnest.

“Rosalie is going to have a baby soon,” he tells Bull, his eyes not straying away from the road, voices fading into the background.

“She married a merchant from Redcliffe, right?” Cullen is envious of the ease Bull has to remember things about him, things that, on the worst days, Cullen himself thinks he will be forgetting soon. On the other hand, he thinks about the stories Bull has told him about Seheron, about the Chargers, and Cullen doesn’t think he’ll have the same ease to forget those, when the time comes.

“Yeah, they married in Drakonis last year—she was away when I went visiting,”

“So, you want to see her before it happens?” Bull asks, Cullen knows his eye must be trained on him even if he’s not looking, knows that there’s a smile tugging up his lips towards the eyepatch.

“Or after. I just—don’t wanna be away like it happened with Branson’s,” he explains, one of his hands patting his mare’s neck absentmindedly.

Alec, who must be ten by now and lived in Southreach with Branson and Micaela, two streets away from their parents. Alec, who upon meeting uncle Cullen had exclaimed that he wanted to be like him when he grew up, which horrified Cullen in a way that he was later unable to explain to Mia.

“Then you should go—I mean I don’t know much about kids ‘n shit but, it’s your sister,” Bull’s voice rumbles, a bit closer.

He can see that Bull has guessed the question Cullen wants to ask by the way he is looking at him.

He has to swallow past the tightness in his throat, past the urge to pull his hand up and rub at his neck, “I—I wanted you to come? Maybe? Like, I’m not saying that you have to, of course not, but if you’d be amenable, and the Chargers were not busy, I was thinking they could maybe stay at the Rest while we are away and—of course, this is all hypothetical, I wouldn’t want to presuppose—”

“Yeah, sure,” comes Bull’s answer, cutting him off in an instant, a self-assured smile gracing his lips, a smile that Cullen relates to kindness, warmth.

“Sure?” he manages not to stutter this time, despite how much it is taking him not to stare in disbelief—at least he’s blinking.

“Yeah, I don’t know, seems like one of those important things humans do that you had never asked for,” Bull shrugs.

“It’s not because of you—I mean, that I hadn’t asked!” he hastily explains, seeing the smile in Bull’s lips still in place, “Look, I—at first I was scared, because Mia’s reaction was a bit…baffling,” he notices a bit too late that he’s already nibbling at his top lip in between pauses. He also notices that he should no longer care about it, not here, not with Bull.

“You had already warned her by letter. I mean, I could be wrong about this,”

“As you _so often_ are,” Cullen interjects with a snort.

“But your parents have _probably_ already figured out that you’re not getting married and buying a pretty farmstead in which to raise your kids,” Bull adds, clicking his tongue lightly. Cullen knows that if there wasn’t such a high risk of it going wrong, due to the sheer height difference between their mounts, Bull would have already made a go for his ass.

“Of course, because their idea of ideal is surely for their son to one day return home with a seven feet tall Qunari trailing behind,” Cullen deadpans, “Oh yes hello mother, hello father. This is the Iron Bull who I met while serving in the Inquisition. Do not worry as he is a proper gentleman and is taking good care of me,” he adds, pitching his voice a bit higher.

“Do not forget to mention the amazing sex,” Bull ‘winks’ at him, in that extremely annoying, but nonetheless endearing, way of his in which people _know_ that he is winking and not blinking by the length of said batting of the eye.

“ _Maker’s breath_ , don’t even try to do that in front of them. You’d kill my father,” he mutters, allowing the Chargers to pass them so that they can be at the end of their little entourage.

A roar of laughter escapes Bull and his nuggalope toots twice as if in approval, the whole scene makes Stitches and Rocky, who are straight ahead of them, turn around with twin amused expressions.

“If you change your mind or you just don’t want to go in the end, it’d be ok…”

“Oh, but I _do_ wanna go,” Bull sobers up almost instantly, his hand finding a way up to ruffle Cullen’s hair, his curls pulling out from the little pomade that remains from two days ago, “I know you are aware that Qunari don’t do family or loving the regular way,” there’s a hitch in Bull’s breath that Cullen is unable to miss, even over the hooves on the road and the Chargers merrily trotting ahead, “but if going to see your sister and congratulating her on the kid or whatever—telling your parents that you are getting thoroughly rawed is something you need,” Cullen feels the heat on his cheeks before the matching grin to Bull’s leer shows, “then sure, let’s do it!”

Almost a whole minute passes before Cullen is able to open his mouth, the tight knot that had curled itself on his stomach during the conversation loosening, “Thank you,” he manages to say in an almost whisper.

And by the soft humming assent that comes, he knows Bull’s has heard.

* * *

A golden glint over the mountains makes them stop on their tracks.

A low roar that becomes a raucous scream grows around him, and he has to double-check to accept that he has indeed mistaken Bull’s noises for a dragon.

“We found it, chief! North-East from the Crossroads, just as you said she would be!” Krem whoops from up close.

Cullen’s still staring at the gilded flash that’s making its way through the clear afternoon sky, his gentle Anders mare quavering into a stop as some semblance of controlled chaos erupts around them. His eyes go immediately to Bull, who is grinning like only a dragon—and the promise of great sex—can make him grin, his gaze turning reverent for a second before excitement takes over again.

“Then we’ll probably be able to camp a bit closer to her lair! Come on boys! Tomorrow, we _hunt_!”

 _Ataashi_.

Cullen’s heard it whispered at the trinkets Bull from time to time brings; dragon hides repurposed into boots or pieces of armour, small figurines carved on their bones—he once also heard Krem making an accurate rendition of Bull saying it, but the raw look Bull sports right now has nothing to do with his quiet adoration.

They ride energetically through roads Cullen is familiar with, pass through forts that still preserve the Inquisition’s banner in them. It feels nostalgic, even if it had been long before his Commander years that he traversed these gentle slopes and lush fields for the first time. He prefers this nostalgia to the one he associates with the Chantry though; prefers the memories of weekends riding along his father, months of checking the Hinterlands for more rogue templar outposts than memories of cold stone walls, memories of bright blue and—

“Chief says we will camp a bit back from the Blood Cliffs, says her lair was there when they came with the Inquisitor a few years back,” Stitches’ voice is rough and even, his thick Fereldan accent adds a layer of familiarity that helps Cullen focus on the present, on the now.

“I am still a bit amazed that you all follow him on his dragon hunting excursions,” Cullen says with a smile on his lips.

“Oh, we don’t. Rocky and I usually wait on whatever base we establish—too much flammable material,” he explains with a chuckle, his Marcher ranger neighing as he draws him to a stop, the druffalo herd that’s crossing the path they are going through bisecting their group in half.

“Sounds better than giant trapping for Orlesian nobles.”

Cullen does not expect the peal of laughter that escapes the usually stoic healer’s lips, Dalish following suit a few feet behind them.

“Believe me, _shem_ , it surely is,” her lilting laughter carries through, followed by a snorttish _yeah_ from Stitches.

The druffalo pass and they continue after the rest.

And Cullen feels more at home than he has felt in months.

* * *

They camp close to a clear creek that flows close to the mountains, its waters looking like an uneven silver road under the moonlight.

Cullen imagines that the contrast between that silverite-like gleam outside, and the almost golden quality the light has inside their tent could signify something; the clear white light reminding him of Skyhold, of sleepless nights spent in the battlements not knowing if they’d be his last, of weary nightmare filled early mornings, in which the taste of lyrium was too strong on his palate—so sweet and close he could almost feel its burn going down his throat, like when they delivered it to them in the Gallows’ courtyard.

The soft golden light though, the closeness to Bull, sitting on his lap; Cullen’s body pressed against that unimaginable heat, that breath-taking height—it just brings back memories of comfort. Of soft pink coloured porcelain mugs pressed to his hands, filled with tea that’s too spicy to be Fereldan but too good to let go of, of Grace carelessly flopping on top of their bed when they leave the door ajar, Bull’s hands scratching the mabari’s flank as if it was a much smaller creature…

“You here?” Bull’s voice rumbles, forcibly anchoring Cullen to the present, his hands skating the path they had made down, to grab Cullen’s ass, back up, roaming over his spine as if in an effort to centre, to bring him back.

“Yeah, ‘m good,” Cullen manages to mutter, arching his back up a bit so that he can reach Bull’s lips with his own, kissing them softly, licking them before he feels Bull reciprocating, engulfing him in a kiss that’s both messy and familiar, “You?” he asks slowly against those same lips, rubbing his lightly against the rough stubble, against the light scars traversing it.

“So good, you can’t even imagine,” Bull answers, his grin widening as Cullen mirrors it almost inadvertently, “yeah—so fucking good. Having you here, fuck, _kadan_ , you can’t even begin to imagine how _hot_ that is,” he leers, and despite the heat, Cullen can feel his skin pebbling under Bull’s meandering hands, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

Cullen nods dumbly, he knows his mind is slipping, knows that in a couple of minutes Bull could do anything to him and he’d probably acquiesce; even if exhaustion has begun to seep in his bones, even if it’s too late for them to be awake, taking into account what they are going to do tomorrow,—he’d take anything, everything.

“You are so good to me, so fucking good,” Bull’s breath gusts over the skin of his neck this time, one of his hands lifting him up while with the other he tugs at his smalls to get rid of them, leaving Cullen bracketing Bull’s lap completely naked, his hands bound behind his back with a soft golden silken cord—one of Bull’s favourites.

Cullen yelps when Bull suddenly pushes him, thrown almost completely off Bull’s lap except for the great warm grip that is firmly keeping him from falling back onto their bedrolls. He almost, _almost_ , tries to sputter something out, but Bull’s other hand comes up to his mouth, his left, two of the fingers that remain intact outstretched—and Cullen knows what to do.

“Bite,” Bull commands as soon as Cullen lips are circling past his claws, noticing almost in a blur how his lips pull up a bit, how his teeth must be showing, “yeah, like that,” the affirmation keeping the self-consciousness over his teeth at bay, “you beautiful, glorious thing,” Bull says next, the hand that was gripping to avoid his fall pulling him a bit closer, finding an equilibrium that forces Cullen to search Bull’s gaze for reassurance. He notices fast though, the warm grey palm skating up his flank seconds later, as if he were a skittish horse who needed to be praised.

“ _Ataashi_ ,” Bull adds, his gaze once again reverent, and Cullen tries not to drool more as the fingers in his mouth push a bit deeper, as he feels his teeth scratching over the calloused and wrinkled flesh, “ _glorious_ , that you are, so fucking gorgeous.”

Cullen’s sure that he’s blushing, that it must be creeping down his neck, sliding down his chest along with saliva and sweat, but he honestly cannot care less; because Bull’s palm is going over his chest, over his nipples and the golden fuzz that covers the front part of his body, and he _doesn’t care_ —because it feels so good, he feels so whole.

“You look so much like her, fuck, _kadan_ , all of her gilded goodness. Gonna make you a coat with her hide, yeah?”

Cullen hadn’t even noticed how his cock was standing on end until Bull had started raking his nails down his thighs, coming dangerously close to his balls and his dick. He has felt them there before and knows that they hurt like the Void, but, Maker’s balls, he’s so ready to feel them there again—to feel that sinfully exquisite pain. 

“Or maybe a harness, a pretty tight golden harness, so I can have you like _this_ ,” Bull emphasizes by tugging at his balls.

Cullen tries not to scream, only to feel Bull’s fingers going as deep as they can, his teeth clenching around flesh not to let them in deeper, which earns him a grunt of approval.

“A harness and a collar, yeah? To have you whenever, wherever—so you can wear them under your clothes and know that once you take them off, I’ll be there to take the reins, my little lion,” his outstretched arm flexes a little, pulling back, and Cullen lets out a muffled protest because he doesn’t want to let go.

Bull’s fingers slip out in spite of the resistance, slick and dripping with saliva, Cullen’s first impulse is to pull forward, to lick what he has soiled—and he does so with a lurch, but before his tongue can catch them, he’s reminded of where Bull’s hand is, a firm pull on his cock making a hoarse scream escape his throat before it gets muffled by Bull’s rumbling laughter.

“Fuck off,” he manages to rasp out, choking back a moan once again, as Bull pinches his foreskin, tears prickling at the corners of his tightly-closed eyes.

He cannot go on like this, he is so close—so fucking close, he almost, _almost_ , feels bad about it. But he can’t, he can’t because Bull is there, and Bull means safe, Bull means warmth and _freedom_ , his words painting scenarios in Cullen’s mind that make him be as close as he’s ever been to liberation. The Chant helped and so did the Order, but after Kinloch, Kirkwall and the Inquisition—he _needs_ this kind of freedom, this lack of responsibility towards anyone that’s not in between this four canvas walls, he needs to feel unmoored, untethered, without the shame that accompanied those same thoughts during his first months at Skyhold—he needs for his only anchor to this world to be Bull.

“C’mon, _kadan_ , c’mon.”

Cullen’s starts bowing closer to Bull’s chest, he can feel him speaking against his scalp, his head almost pressed against the warm skin filled with tattoos that he’s mapped so many times with the tips of his fingers and tongue. Bull’s moist hand beginning a rhythmic motion to jerk him off, while the other traces patterns over his neck and chest.

“Please,” Cullen begs in a barely-there whisper, he’s long ago abandoned struggling against his bonds, spasms rake his limbs, his legs, still around Bull’s hips, closing even tighter around them.

“Go on then,” Bull echoes back, almost in the same tone, nudging Cullen up a bit so that he can kiss him again. The jerks speeding up, feeling stronger, more precise—and Cullen has to, he _has to_ let go.

The pleasure is so blinding he goes absolutely numb against Bull’s chest, moisture pooling in between their stomachs the same way it’s pooling in Bull’s collarbone from Cullen’s saliva and tears.

Bull probably lets him rest there a while. He is not sure, he just feels the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the rhythmic staccato beat of his heart—a loud thumping that makes Cullen wonder if he’s hearing an echo of Bull’s or his own.

Bull’s fingers are over his scalp; gentle, digging through locks of hair that obstinately remain stuck together, untangling curls and letting them loose, framing Cullen’s face—he knows because they tingle, they tingle and, right now, feel great.

He feels his vision shift, the darkness and rest Bull’s chest had offered him vanish to gently be lowered down onto their bedroll, positioned on his side so that Bull can untie the knots in a couple of swift motions. Cullen’s not very aware of what’s happening until he feels Bull’s hands around his wrists, slowly rubbing and bending, probably checking for marks or burns—he was very gentle tonight, Cullen’s sure there won’t be any; not that it matters anymore.

“You here?” Bull asks sitting close to Cullen, his face moving down so that he can kiss his wrists, tenderly, first in the area where his pulse point lies, then up, following the tendon towards the palm, until his scarred lips are brushing against Cullen’s fingertips.

“Hhm, in a sec,” he nods, a dopey smile pulling at his scar, his fingers brushing Bull’s lips in a tender caress. Cullen moves his other hand up, gingerly, as if trying to feel its weight and length before he reaches for Bull’s left cheek, repeating the tracing of scarred tissue in soft even strokes that go up to the horn, and back down.

Cullen can see Bull’s erection flagging, the heavy hot pressure he had felt pressed so close to his own slowly receding. Nights like this still leave him puzzled; nights in which Bull just gives, and gives, and gives, nights in which Cullen is expected just to take and not to serve. But he knows Bull gets something out of it, he is still unsure of _what_ exactly, he may as well never understand.

Bull shuffles a bit to the side, which Cullen does not think much about until Bull’s hand is on the nape of his neck, slowly pulling him up and untangling Cullen’s hands from his face, pressing a cool waterskin to them.

“Drink first,” Bull says, a thousand times repeated refrain, and Cullen does.

By the time he drains half and stoppers it, Bull’s hands are absently petting his leg, massaging his ankles to afterwards trail his fingers in between the coarse dark hair, around his knees and up his flank—the motion is nothing but familiar, another step in bringing Cullen back; and in making said return safe.

“There’s a saying in qunlat,” Bull begins, his tone even, almost reverent, “I had to explain it to the Boss once, think it was after slaying one of my first dragons here in the North. _Taarsidath-an halsaam_ ,” he recites and when Cullen looks away from Bull’s hands, he sees his eye fixed on his, that same sense of worshipfulness carrying through his gaze.

“Does it have five different meanings? Like all the ones that are not prayers,” Cullen asks, earning himself a pinch in the stomach that makes him wince through a smile.

“You’re just being lippy ‘cause you know that I cannot punish you here,” Bull retorts, his hands moving to retrieve the water skin before his hands get back to Cullen’s body, now with a wet washcloth. Cullen recognizes the threat in those words—and _craves_ it.

“Perhaps,” Cullen shrugs, the sluggish floaty feeling that appears nights like this is still there, his brain fixed on the fact that Bull and him, inside this tent, are the only two people that matter or exist in the world right now.

Bull cleans Cullen’s crotch first, in a way that reminds Cullen of how he cleans himself when there’s no ulterior motives behind it, clinical and to the point—almost soldier-like. Bull then moves to Cullen’s thighs and stomach, all the areas where sweat has pooled or through which Bull’s mouth has traversed, making this the most thorough cleaning his body has received since they departed Hillsdale almost a week ago.

“So…what does it mean?” Cullen asks with a sigh, smiling a bit upon noticing that his attempt to humour Bull seems to be working by the way he stops his ministrations to slowly massage Cullen’s clavicle.

“Hm? Dunno, maybe I have forgotten, I am getting old after all,” Bull teases, earning himself an almost jab from Cullen, that ends up being more like a nudge against Bull’s knee.

“Andraste’s pearly ass, just spit it out,” Cullen groans, twisting a bit in his position so that he can roll closer to Bull.

Bull seems to ponder it for a couple of seconds before he chuckles, “Something along the lines of: I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect.”

“Void no,” he groans again, almost managing to roll to the other side of the bedroll before Bull’s hand latches on his side and pulls him back.

“It’s true! You can ask Krem, you know that lil’ shit doesn’t let me enjoy anything,” he assures Cullen, cleaning himself with the rag before tossing it aside.

“When, in the Maker’s name, are you supposed to say something like that!?”

“After slaying a dragon, of course,” Bull answers as if it were as natural as breathing.

“You have them as sacred beasts, but talk about masturbating to the act of killing them?” he asks a bit baffled, his brain, which seems to be still lagging behind, coming to halt, “Wait,” he mutters, committing the error of trying to stand up, butting heads with Bull, “You compared me to a dragon before? Right? Atashi,”

“ _Ataashi_ ,” Bull corrects him, making the vowels longer, clearer.

“Glorious ones,” Cullen says under his breath, the thought making his head spin in a way he had never thought possible before.

“That you are,” Bull returns the headbutt in a much gentler way.

“We can agree to disagree,” he says, sounding even to his own ears, hesitant. Bull could spend another thousand years bathing him in compliments that go beyond and far deeper than those he’s heard on his repeated visits to various Orlesian courts, but they will never stop feeling inappropriate, out of place, as if the man he was talking about was some kind of better version of Cullen that he’s unable to see.

“Think I’d be able to convince you, my little dragon,” Bull grins wickedly as he separates a bit to show Cullen his left hand, his index and middle fingers sporting matching twin rings of slowly purpling indentations around them.

Cullen _has_ to look away as soon as he sees the bruising, and by the heat that crawls even to his ears, he thinks that he must be red all over by now “Didn’t you wanna be the Iron Dragon of the Inquisition?” he yawns, barely getting to cover his mouth with the back of his hand, still looking away from Bull and into the lightly illuminated brown canvas.

Bull laughs again, good-naturedly and so _warm_ “Yeah, who told you that?”

Cullen hears him move, away, he feels compelled to look to barely see Bull lifting the crystal covering of the lamp before it is blown away, leaving them enveloped in absolute darkness.

“Cole…” Cullen mumbles, trying to crawl back towards the heat, towards Bull, trying to also find blankets or something to cover himself with on his way, “Isn’t it a bit too—selfish? For there to be two dragons together, when there are so few out in the wild?” Cullen says, pressing himself against Bull’s side, feeling a rumbling chuckle course through his stomach.

“Nah, I think it’s pretty neat—you can be _my_ dragon and I’ll be _a_ dragon.”

Soft fabric sticks close to Cullen’s still moist skin, Bull’s breath ruffling the curls on top of his head, one of his hands drawing him even closer. “Greedy,” he mumbles, Bull’s body a furnace he pushes himself even closer to.

His eyes focus for a second on the still darkening wick of the candle, his nose taking in the light scent of burning fat, almost imperceptible over the smell of their sweat—Bull’s smell, leather and musk so strong Cullen still doesn’t manage to grasp how he hasn’t gotten used to it faster. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Maybe he can’t.

“Why—why hadn’t you blown it out earlier?” Cullen asks, sleepy, almost gone, his eyelids weighing more than they should—the warmth is nice, the fuzzy fake feeling of phoney exhaustion a welcome load on his muscles, “Anyone could have walked by and seen…” he whispers, more to himself than to Bull. He’s even surprised when he gets an answer, perhaps it’s just sleep dulling his senses.

“’cause I’m greedy.”

He cannot help it when a smile draws itself in his lips, his face pressed against Bull’s warm skin.

* * *

The tent is still dark when Cullen awakens. He can hear the river running, feel the soft snores Bull breathes in and out, smell the stuffy air inside the tent, the taste of rank breath at the back of his throat.

He also needs to relieve himself.

The hazy feeling still lingers in the back of Cullen’s head, making the process of extricating himself from under Bull’s arm even slower than usual. He manages to lift and deposit it on top of the warm spot he leaves behind without disturbing Bull’s position, crouching to drop a quick kiss on his brow when he notices a minute disturbance of his breath.

“Privy,” Cullen whispers, his voice a bit hoarse, loud enough for it to be heard, for Bull to know that he doesn’t have to move, not now—not yet.

He manages to haphazardly pull his clothes on, at least the bare minimum to look decent, and emerges into the cold early morning air, the lush green clearing in which they had settled now looking almost grey, the little light that has started filtering through the canopy of trees above them a reminder that there’s few hours left ‘til dawn.

By the time he comes out of some nearby bushes, he’s sorely regretting the loss of warmth, his feet the only part of his body preserving some of it thanks to the thick leather boots he had managed to pull on before he got out of the tent—one of Josephine’s many sensible but fashionable gifts, as Cassandra would call them. For Cullen it is enough that they do their job, no need for the finery or the fur lining that adorns them; he will not be caught denying that they are nice though.

He walks by the gentle stream on his way back, Bull and his tent having been placed a little further away from the rest—enough to grant them a sense of privacy but not enough for them to become a blind spot to whoever takes guard duty at night.

His reflection’s barely visible on the surface, the bottom still too dark for Cullen to see what lurks underneath, he makes out the dishevelled appearance he must have; the thick tangle of curls on top of his head, the untied laces of his undershirt, the scruff his cheeks sport after three days without feeling a razor’s touch, his muscles feeling barely there after months of only light exercise… He looks world-weary, tired and probably too old for his thirty-two years of age.

 _Ataashi_ , Bull had called him, worshipful, like when he recites those chants in qunlat while they are lying together—like Cullen must sound when he manages to find the courage to recite a few cantos in the early morning or when an episode hits hard.

He does not see that glory, that sense of being something worthy of being admired, he’s just—a man, a very tired and normal man who is barely scraping by to get some semblance of normality back in his life. And he viscerally _hates_ that he feels so wrong about it. He _hates_ that he cannot see what Bull does.

A light splash in the water brings him back to the present, his head jerking towards it while his hand goes to the hilt of a sword that has not been placed there yet. It’s only Krem though, the pot they use for cooking on his hands, which he rinses with repetitive mechanical motions until he seems satisfied and fills it with water.

“Hey Cullen,” he says, his voice loud enough for both to hear, “care for a drink?” Krem asks with an easy smile.

Cullen’s eyebrows must rise a bit too much or his lips part in excess because he sees Krem laughing a bit under his breath.

“I was offering tea, but I’m sure we could salvage some booze from last night,” he offers again, his posture easy, as if the pot dangling from his hand weighed as much as a loaf of bread.

“I—I’d like that,” he answers in return, glad to see Krem smiling back before he starts walking towards the campfire, Cullen following on his heels, his reflection long forgotten.

Krem banks the fire a little higher before he sits down, the pot resting over it while his gloved hands fumble with small metal tins that rest in a bigger wooden box, dropping the content of two of them into twin brass mugs, deft fingers checking the blackened teapot lying in between the logs before he nods, satisfied.

“First time against a big lizard?” Krem asks, breaking the quiet and picking up a soft-looking pink bundle from the log he’s been sitting on to place it over his knees before getting rid of one of his gloves to begin sewing.

Cullen is entranced by how his fingers work the cloth, how nimble and steady they are, effortlessly tugging and driving the needle back in; it seems so unlikely for someone that fights with a maul—but Cullen well knows that the Chargers have never been ones for likely.

“Not really, while working for the Inquisition I think we all saw our fair share of them,” he answers humourlessly.

“Yeah, seeing them is one thing, fighting them though? Tough shit.”

“I must confess I have never—fought one properly,” Cullen says, sheepish, “we drove one away from Griffon Wing Keep, but it was…dying,” he trails off. His mind bringing back images of the emaciated beast, her scales having completely lost their gold over umber lustre, her yellow goat-like eyes unseeing, her breaths coming in short hot puffs of sulphur smelling smoke that drove the soldiers away.

“Ah…the Chief told us about it, I think he convinced the Inquisitor to go grant her some mercy after you drove it towards the Abyss, he’s always had a soft spot for them,” he says, fondness seeping in.

“That, he does,” Cullen replies. He wonders if he sounds the same way Krem does, if he’s also so utterly smitten with Bull to the rest of the world “at least it’s not as plain to the world as the soft spot he has for Fereldan cuisine,” he adds with a smile, making Krem splutter from his spot.

“ _Fasta vass_! I _knew_ domestic life was making him look rounder,” Krem mutters, leaving his stitching aside to pick up the kettle, pouring some hot water in each cup before offering one of them to Cullen.

“Hasn’t rejected any of the shepherd’s pie the smith’s wife keeps bringing,” Cullen says, pressing his cold hands against the hot tin, which feels oddly comforting.

“Fuck! I’m never letting him stay longer than two months again. Next time we know we will be adventuring with the Iron Ball instead!”

Cullen can’t stop himself, a peal of laughter parting his lips before he catches himself, covering his mouth as his cheeks flush, but instead of the silent apology his brain clamours for, he says, “Won’t be much iron if he keeps gobbling them down at this rate.”

The snorttish giggle that Krem lets out is also kind of unexpected, and Cullen stares at him for five solid seconds until it slowly dies down, Krem wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I sometimes forget you have a sense of humour under all that prim and properness you keep around yourself, must make the Chief happy,” Krem says, approval thick in his voice.

And Cullen finds himself forced to look away, to the depths of his mug, trying to let the heat crawling across his back die down, cursing himself for still being so easy to get.

“I’m being honest here Cullen, I—don’t like to speak about this, _much_ , Maker knows talking at the Chief’s back about it is fun and all, but me and the boys? We are truly happy that he’s found a way to deal with the whole Tal Vashoth stuff. It was…rough for him,” Krem’s breath hitches a bit at the end, his hands clutching the mug in a similar way to Cullen’s, but his gaze is fixed in the flames, in the crackling and crumbling wood.

“That, it was,” Cullen repeats softly, breathing in the spicy smell that wafts up, thankful that Krem has chosen a stronger blend—he’ll be able to taste it that way, to _feel_ it.

“Plus, it felt super weird not having the Chief around at night with someone on his tent so we could toss wax around for our ears, so cheers to that,” Krem says with a smile, raising his mug towards Cullen who clinks them together, before his brain goes into a complete halt.

 _It felt super weird not having the Chief around at night with someone on his tent_ plays at least three times at three different speeds on his head while he blinks rapidly, the words swirling and awakening a storm of feelings Cullen was unaware that were there.

“He’s not—slept with anyone around, lately?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but it comes out as strained, breathy.

“Hm? No? Why would he? The Chief spends all his time mooning over you, even when you are not together. It’s a bit gross,” Krem laughs, drinking from his mug before he leaves it aside, his fingers going back to work on the pink bundle of cloth.

It hits Cullen like a ton of bricks then.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes out, forcing himself to nod, to drink a bit, to not look like he had just been delivered news about his siblings passing.

It is not something bad per se, any other person would probably feel elated after hearing that, especially knowing Bull’s old track record, any _normal_ person, Cullen thinks bitterly. Meanwhile, he feels—hollow almost, about Bull having left behind something he enjoyed so much, something that made him an intimidating and unreachable force in bed, his prowess, his fame among the tittering serving girls and many of the young soldiers. To know that he has sacrificed _that_ for him, leaves Cullen wrong-footed, as if all of a sudden knowing that Bull has been happy with him, _only_ with him had upturned his entire world.

“Cullen? You alright?” Krem asks, bringing him back to the fireside, to the camp.

“Yes…just, tired. I think I’ll head back to catch a few more hours of sleep,” he excuses himself, downing the rest of the mildly warm tea in a gulp, impressed that he manages to stand up without stumbling.

“Sure,” Krem nods, but he’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised, suspicion etched across his features.

Cullen doesn’t linger and begins the trek back, to the tent, to Bull. He doesn’t know how he’ll face him, because, honestly, he doesn’t think there’s anything to talk about—they can’t talk about something that very pointedly _didn’t_ happen, but Cullen knows that Bull will know that something is up if Cullen doesn’t tell him—because if something hasn’t improved with the passing of the years is Cullen’s ability to lie.

He slinks into the tent as silently as he can, ditching his boots and breeches, keeping his undershirt on, as if the cold had seeped into the marrow of his bones. He feels Bull hum in appreciation, pulling him against his chest once Cullen curls himself up close.

“Fuck! Your feet are freezing,” Bull grunts, draping one of his legs over them to help him warm up.

Cullen’s wishes they could also warm his insides up, bank a fire against the cold dread in his gut, forming like spider-web-like frost over a windowpane.

He wants to feel it melt.

* * *

The dragon, from up close, is one of the most majestic creatures Cullen’s ever laid his eyes upon. Its orange-yellow scales shine golden under the morning sun, which filters through the membranes of its wings to cast an eerie gilded light over the entirety of the clearing. Fighting it reminds Cullen of the training bouts Bull and him used to have at Skyhold—maybe also to the entirety of his relationship with Bull; too large to be true and terrifyingly beautiful.

Seeing it descend from its perch on top of a cliff and growl making fire rain from above almost makes Cullen’s legs lock up; but instinct had kicked in _fast_. Bull, Krem and Grim have been single-handedly keeping the beast at bay while he and Skinner try to decimate the dragonlings that seem to crawl from under every single rock.

The fight quickly demands that they all attack at once, and Cullen _thrives_. He had thought that battle was beyond him, that the closest he would ever get again to wielding a sword would be against bandits close to Hillsdale, but fighting a dragon—Cullen had never even dared to imagine. Surely, it had once been a very real possibility when he was still Commander and Corypheus’ archdemon was a very real threat, but after the Inquisitor ended it… Well, he is still trying to grasp how he’ll manage to thank Bull for something he hadn’t even known he needed, once again.

Grim and Krem try to go for its hind-legs, decimating as many scales on their way as possible, while Bull and Cullen try to get to skin—and if fighting alongside Bull against armies had been something to remember, to say the least, fighting alongside Bull against a dragon was a thing worth singing rowdy tavern songs over for. The sheer force Bull pulls into each strike of his axe, his roars and rumbling laughter asking for more send Cullen’s brain into a frenzy that doesn’t manage to discern in between proud and incredibly turned on.

His joints are beginning to feel the strain by the time he sees the creature falter, Bull’s _Taarsidath-an halsaam_ _!_ sounds even clearer than before. A battle cry Cullen answers with a roar, sinking his blade under the beast’s throat, deep into a patch of yellowy skin that Bull had previously left uncovered after a remarkably savage blow with his axe.

The spray of bluish arterial blood leaves him blind; thick and strongly smelling of brimstone and something that resembles Qunari black-powder.

Cullen is fast enough to hear the beast lose balance and duck aside, feeling the entire bulk of his armour and shield clanking against the wet packed earth, his entire body vibrating against the metal. He realises, perhaps a little too late, that something has fallen along with him, but the fast inhale-exhale of his breathing and the beating of his heart barely let him hear anything over the final roar the beast makes, collapsing close by.

“Cullen!” footsteps are coming closer to him, the jingle of chainmail on armour along with them. Probably Krem.

He manages to pull himself up, his eyes still tightly shut, for fear of the fluid getting in his eyes; he’s heard tales of men losing their sight to varghest spit or especially acidic nug shit, he doesn’t want to risk it.

“Fuck, you okay, _shem_?” comes Dalish’s firm lilting voice from somewhere up close. He doesn’t manage not to jolt with a yelp when he feels her hand on his arm, but he does manage not to raise his sword and shield in a defensive stance, “Sorry, just, wait,” she calls, as Cullen feels the pull of magic, the thick fluid levitating away from his face, a cool lighter one coming in a slow trickle over his eyes and mouth, “it’s water, don’t swallow.”

“That’s what the Chief said,” Skinner pipes in, making Cullen almost physically recoil from the touch.

A dry cloth is the next thing he feels against his eyelids, and after it pulls away he slowly takes a peek, wincing a bit at the sudden burst of light that blinds him for a couple of seconds before he takes the whole scene in.

Krem and Grim are close, matching grins on their faces as they stare at Cullen, Skinner somewhere to his left, close to Dalish and the dragon—lying inert on the ground, wisps of smoke and dissipating spell circles enveloping its body. Its head hanging low, the thick blue blood pooling on the ground—and then, there’s Bull. Bull who sports a gash on his side and scorch marks on his horns and is staring wide-eyed at Cullen, his eyepatch a bit askew, hands tightly gripping the handle of his greataxe.

Cullen doesn’t think that he’s been looked at with such a mixture of wonder and hunger in his entire life.

Bull is in front of him in a rush, Cullen almost doesn’t see him move, and by the times his lips are moving to reassure everyone that he’s fine, Bull has grabbed him by his hips and is pulling him up so that they are face level, barely getting to mouth a yelp before he feels Bull’s hot breath close to his face.

“ _That_ was the hottest shit you’ve ever pulled off, _kadan_ ,” Bull all but growls, and Cullen doesn’t even get to feel his stomach clench at the sheer turmoil of things Bull’s tone makes him feel before his lips are being sealed with a hungry kiss, all tongue and clanking teeth.

So he lets himself be devoured.

 _Taarsidath-an halsaam_ he thinks, a slow smirk pulling at his lips once they are apart. Bull’s smile and how he butts their foreheads together almost making him forget the cheers and wolf whistles that come from behind them.

Yeah, he’ll sure be doing that with memories of this for a while.

* * *

The waters of Lake Calenhad are painfully cold against his skin. Cullen’s barely got the water up to his knees before he starts thinking about turning back and taking the perfunctory washing some of the Chargers have, but none of the Chargers have ended up today up to their ass-cracks in dragon gore, so he continues walking down the sandy shore until the water gets past his stomach.

The night is warmer than it should for early Justinian, the cloudless sky allowing both moons to paint the surface of lake Calenhad in tones of silverite sheened mercurial black, the Chargers’ bonfire a soft orange glow in a little grove up from the shore—not far off from where the dragon’s body must remain. Looking in the opposite direction, Cullen can almost imagine seeing the sharp tower of Kinloch Hold in the distance. He shakes his head trying to let go of the thought—even if the cold waters smell the same as they did in the Tower, even if the closest building that can stand in these shores is from Redcliffe…

He brings the soap he has been holding ever so tightly closer to his face, soft cinnamon and vandal aria, a gift from Dorian perhaps? Or maybe Vivienne? He doesn’t think the Chargers carry so fine stuff with them usually; nothing to do with the strong-smelling one they gave them at the Order, probably specially delivered to the Chantries all over Thedas—a disgustingly coarse fatty lye soap.

He notices he’s been reciting Chant verses under his breath by the time he ducks underwater, a sliver of liquid entering his mouth before he shuts it close.

_In the long hours of the night  
When hope has abandoned me,  
I will see the stars and know  
Your Light remains._

Trials, it had been Trials, he thinks, holding his breath until the cold is too much to handle.

There’s a warm presence close to him by the time he reemerges, he doesn’t even have to open his eyes to recognize it as Bull when he feels his right hand, ever so gently, cup the back of his neck to lay a caress on it.

“Hey,” he can feel Bull’s voice rumbling on his back. It’s not the only thing of Bull’s he can feel on his back though, so he moves a bit forward while opening his eyes, Bull’s hand leaving its place against wet hair and skin.

“Hey,” Cullen answers back, using his hand to try and pull his wet curls back, the water moving and lapping against his skin as Bull moves to be by his side, still close.

Bull’s buck naked but for his eyepatch, a lazy smile spreading across his lips “Saw you drifting off a bit back there…” Bull says as his only explanation.

“I’m fine! I just—” Cullen cuts himself off before he can continue, muttering a curse under his breath upon noticing that he was about to justify himself. From the corner of his eye he sees Bull’s smile turning even gentler, “Kinloch Hold is a few miles up this lake,” he blurts out instead.

Bull hums thoughtfully, his hand diving underwater to grab Cullen’s and pry the bar of scented soap that he had almost forgotten he was holding, “I’ll do your back? Then you can do me,” Bull grins mischievously, earning himself a sigh from Cullen before he acquiesces.

The water shifts as Bull moves back to where he was seconds ago, his hands, huge and warm, spread out lather all over his back and neck first, brushing gently against bruises and scratches that were gashes hours before, prior to the elfroot taking effect.

“Was it something we did today?” Bull asks, shifting a bit so that he can scrub Cullen´s sides and armpits clean, more hums of approval coming out of him, his face getting dangerously close from time to time, sometimes just to smell, others dipping down for a kiss or a nip.

“Yes, can’t believe I was keeping from you all the dragon-slaying that took place in that Tower,” Cullen snorts, yelping as Bull gropes his ass and squeezes over an old bruise.

“Cheeky,” Bull chastises, rearranging Cullen so that they are face to face, his hands spreading more soap over his front, lingering over old scars, but again, making the touch just functional.

Cullen sighs once more, lowering his head as he sees Bull lower his stance, his soapy hands dipping underwater to continue their path downwards, patting on Cullen’s right leg so that he can raise it to get it clean.  
“It was just the lake, the feeling of cold water,” Cullen explains, his voice low. He pulls one of his hands up just to scratch Bull’s chin gently, over the stubble, close to his ear, “I—still don’t understand how something so small can leave me in such a state,” he adds, his laugh self-deprecating this time.

“I don’t think battle sickness attends to reason, I’ve seen men fighting against giants and darkspawn go down in a funk because they heard a bunch of chubby snoufleurs tooting a bit too close,” Bull says, his smile still gentle, lowering Cullen’s leg to repeat his previous motions over the other.

“Today was—certainly _something_ ”, Cullen manages to say next with a laugh, needing Bull’s voice to stay focused, running away from the quiet.

“Fuck yeah,” Bull echoes, letting Cullen’s leg go before he manages to clean his crotch without making it feel anything other than necessary.

“Don’t think you will be taking me to do something similar anytime soon though,” he nudges Bull on his chest with a laugh.

Bull tips his head backwards, his head coming to rest on Cullen’s shoulder as he mouths gently over a previously-left lovebite, “Close your eyes,” he asks, sounds more like a command, and if Cullen wasn’t so bone-deep tired, he’s sure that his cock would have reacted to it. But he only closes his eyes and obeys, as he always does, “I’ll have to take only the boys on big errands from now on then,” Bull says, his fingers digging into Cullen’s scalp, verging of painful, but not far enough for him to feel the scratch of the claws.

“At least they’ve proven they know how to keep you safe; I don’t even want to imagine how going after dragons has been before today,” Cullen hums, Bull’s chuckle sending a shiver over his cold skin.

“Oh, you know Krem is very close in his mother henning techniques to you, and I speak as head of the henhouse,” Bull laughs, “never gonna leave him conspiring with you again, Koslun knows what you two get up to every time I leave you together,” he snorts, tapping Cullen on the back, “down you go, _kadan_ ,” he says softly against Cullen skin, who obeys, wincing a bit before he can duck back underwater.

And it suddenly hits him.

Down there, his senses muted, enveloped in complete darkness.

Did Bull listen to them last night? Did he _hear_?

Cullen resurfaces in a rush, almost losing his footing and falling back on Bull while he tries to cough the water that has gone up his nose due to the sudden shock. Turning back on Bull’s searching fingers to open his eyes wide and look up, finding Bull’s worried gaze.

“Last night—this morning,” he splutters, stumbling over his own words, eyes fixed on Bull’s as he sees understanding dawn on him, “you heard?”

Silence then, a short-lived one as Bull clicks his tongue, looking up, before he lowers his gaze once again, “Yeah,” the assumption doesn’t hurt—or hurts less than Cullen bringing the topic up would have hurt.

“It’s—not bad,” is the first thing that escapes Cullen’s lips, and if he had a wall against which to bang his head, he would, _hard_ , “Maker’s mercy—that’s not what I meant… I just,” he has to look away and raise his hand in a motion to stop Bull before he can say anything, to encourage him or to stop him, he _needs_ to get this out of his chest. “Look, I just assumed that whenever you were out for too long or just—wanted to, you slept with other people. That’s it, no hard feelings about it, and to suddenly discover that you don’t is—disconcerting!”

“Why? ‘cause you expected the big Qunari heathen to just conquer and plunder some booty every time his dick is not getting wet long enough” there’s bitterness in Bull’s tone, his arms crossed over his front, the water rippling around their shifting bodies.

The surface of the lake is dark, their vicinity obscured by Bull’s presence, and Cullen barely gets to see himself reflected—but when he moves his head up, he can see Bull.

“No! That’s not what I said! Maker’s balls Bull, you love sex, and fucking and from the very beginning I didn’t—I didn’t want to take that away from you. I did not doubt your feelings—your feelings towards me, towards us! At any given moment, I just—don’t be obtuse about this when what I’m saying is that I didn’t want to restrain you I…I don’t want to change you,” his breath peters out after that, feeling his eyes growing wide as Bull’s hand grasps the side of his face lightly, a slow grin spreading across Bull’s lips in spite of his thoughtful expression.

“Shit Cullen, this thing, _our_ thing,” Bull emphasizes by pointing a finger first at himself and then at Cullen, “it’s been exclusive almost since day one.”

“I just—I assumed…” he can feel the water getting colder for every beat of his heart, his feet sinking deeper into the sand.

“No shit!” Bull snorts before letting out a deep sigh, “Look, Cullen, you know we don’t do relationships under the Qun, we don’t do _love_ as most humans understand it.”

Cullen nods a couple of times. They have had this conversation, he can see the doubt that’s etched itself into Bull’s frown and how his posture shifts lightly, telltale signs of him not being entirely comfortable.

“’s just, seeing Lavellan and Dorian around Skyhold… Seeing Dorian go from being this twat who was so visibly afraid of finding someone who cared about him, and become an insufferably attached puppy towards the Inquisitor was just…”

“Disconcerting,” Cullen whispers.

“You can say that again,” Bull snorts, his fingers brushing lightly over Cullen’s ear, “seeing them getting that while I started feeling things I was not used to for you, shit, I wanted to try at least.”

Cullen nods in understanding, something prickling at the corner of his eye, his hand coming to rest over Bull’s, wanting to show that he cares, to reassure him over the unmapped terrain he is walking.

“I’m trying to learn how, can’t promise I ever will, not like your folks do, but yeah,” it’s one of the least articulate speeches Cullen’s heard from Bull, but honestly? It’s refreshing, feeling like he’s not the only one afraid to trip, afraid to never know how to do something he’s seen other people so effortlessly do, how to _be_.

“Can I say it for you, though?” Cullen asks, Bull’s figure is a bit blurry, and he’s sure that the tears running down his cheeks are a mix of exhaustion and feeling so much at the same time.

“What?” Bull asks back, raising an eyebrow upon seeing Cullen almost nuzzling his head against his palm.

“That I love you,” it sounds so heavy in Cullen’s mouth, relief floods him upon noticing that his words haven’t stuck, that he’s delivered them without a stutter, without regret.

Bull stares silently down at him before he tips Cullen’s chin up, the smile he shows Cullen almost blinding, “’course you can, _kadan_.”

And the water is cold. And Cullen feels like an utter fool for overthinking something so small and that had been so easy to talk about.

But the kiss they share feels—right. So he lets it wash away the numbness, the uncertainty. He lets only the warmth remain.

* * *

Cullen is a warm weight against his side. Cullen, whose hands are cold and whose future looks bleak. His body is wrapped in a blanket, lying sideways half on top of Bull, his hair getting lightly ruffled by the tender breeze. The stars shining over them, Voyager and the Watchful Eye visible between the clouds, the soft snores of the Chargers—sleeping almost like a pack of dogs, all curled up and bundled up together—the only noise over the crackling of the fire.

In two days, they will be back. In two days, they will be at that place Cullen likes to call home. Bull is trying to get used to the concept. In two days, they will have a warm bed on which to lie on and a warm dog lying on top of them. It’s some of the most domestic shit Bull’s ever thought about, and it makes him happy, makes him feel in peace.

There’s a soft rustling over him, Cullen lightly shuffling to get a better posture while he tangles his fingers tighter against the soft woollen blankets. Bull sees him blink, amber eyes looking almost golden against the firelight, a brief yawn tugging them close before they blink back open again, peering at him in a drowsier way.

“There’s a tradition among the Qunari,” Bull says, seeing Cullen’s brows lift in askance while he settles back again over Bull, his other hand searching for skin to touch, “when we really care about someone, we go dragon hunting. We take one of their teeth and split it in two… and each of you, holds a part, so no matter how far apart life takes you, you’re always together,” he muses. Cullen must recognise the longing in his words, the nostalgia, because he worms his way out of the blanket to let his head lie over Bull’s chest.

“ _Kadan,_ ” is the only thing he says, his face over Bull’s heart.

“ _Kadan_ ,” Bull calls back, thinking of the dragon tooth lying on his pouch.

Waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> -Calling Cullen’s place The Templar’s Rest was my small homage to one of the best IronLion fics out there, and which I hold very dear. Go read [ Stuck on the Puzzle ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5269628/chapters/12159332)!
> 
> -I wrote the lake scene in a daze and later on realized that it resembled something I had read before. So any similarities to [this drabble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002170/chapters/39970149) are not intentional, please do check it out, as it is a lovely piece.
> 
> This fic was born out of my need to explore how Cullen and Bull’s relationship would be if it went similarly to how Bull and the Inquisitor’s or Bull and Dorian’s go in canon. Not to say that I don’t love interpreting their relationship as an open one, but I really wanted to know where this would take me.  
> I do have more ideas to write stuff for this two—namely a Noir!AU and a prequel and sequel to this fic, so please let me know if you enjoyed! (It was also my first time writing smut in English, so be gentle)
> 
> You can find me on [ Tumblr ](https://midwrites.tumblr.com/).


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